Hanging in the Stars
by Never-Clip-My-Wings-x
Summary: A school production of Romeo and Juliet is something that, at Waterloo Road, cannot run smoothly. Any member of staff who has witnessed a Waterloo Road production of anything knows this - yet somehow, they all end up involved. Flirting, minor catastrophies, and possibly some acting ensues. Joint fic with HedgieX.
1. Chapter 1

When the drama department had announced that they were to put on a show, Tom realised that it was undoubtedly a bad idea. The last school play had resulted in all kinds of calamities, most notably, he felt, leading up to the revelation that the headteacher at the time was, in fact, a former prostitute. Frankly, he felt that he couldn't take that kind of information about Michael.

That was the day he had announced that he would be having no part in the proceedings. Nicki had called him a spoilsport, although she admitted that the prospect of Grantly wearing a pair of tights and being cast in the production of Romeo and Juliet troubled her greatly. But when the only drama teacher foolish enough to work at Waterloo Road resigned about two months into rehearsals, Tom somehow found himself chucked in at the deep end and setting about heading up the entire production, co-directing with Nicki.

This was how he came to find himself sat in his classroom, buried in a pile of sheets relating to productions of Romeo and Juliet, while his ever-helpful co-director was sat on the floor devouring a packet of Love Hearts and flicking through a copy of _Heat_ she'd confiscated from a pupil earlier.

"Nicki, could you by any chance make some attempt at helping?" he asked despairingly as she read the message on a sweet and popped it into her mouth, turning over another page of the magazine as so many of his students infuriated him by doing on a day to day basis.

"I tried to help earlier and you said I was as much use as a chocolate teapot," she pointed out, not taking her eyes off the page, "So I sat over here instead. Love heart?"

"No, thank you." He responded more sharply than he'd intended, and she took one from the packet herself and muttered something under her breath at him, which he imagined would not be repeatable in respectable company. Most of her colleagues probably thought Nicki was always polite, but Tom knew a very different side to her – a side he'd discovered after he'd accidentally hit her over the head with a staple gun last year, only to get chased round the entire school by Nicki brandishing a metre long ruler and apparently trying to decapitate him with it whilst a stream of insults flew from her mouth. He'd definitely realised that she wasn't sweet and innocent after that.

After an awkward silence broken only by Tom cursing when he papercut his hand on a sheet entitled "Shakespearean Snogging", he decided that he did, in fact, rather fancy a Love Heart. Which was annoying, as Nicki was probably too stubborn to give him one now.

As he looked back down at his desk, he felt something hit him in the temple then fall to his desk. Upon closer inspection, the mysterious object turned out to be a Love Heart with the message "Stay Cool" on it, which had been fired as a makeshift missile by Nicki, who was still sat cross-legged on the scratchy dark blue carpet next to Tom's desk flicking through _Heat. _

After a couple of seconds, she turned round and smiled innocently at him, before flinging a "LOL" sweet at his face.

"Fine, I'm sorry." He sighed reluctantly, rolling his eyes, if only because he didn't fancy being taken to A&E having been knocked out by a stray Love Heart. While it would be an interesting story, he didn't fancy having to fill out Health and Safety forms detailing exactly how the incident had occurred. She stood up and wandered over to his desk, inspecting the small rainforest's worth of paper he had accumulated on the surface of it so as the plywood was no longer visible through the mass of paper he had 'organised'.

Having pretended to be interested for what she felt was a reasonable amount of time (around half a second), she turned round to face him, leaning against the desk with a smile and brushing his leg with hers as she looked him in the eyes and smiled dreamily, telling herself for the thousandth time that she was _not_ attracted to Tom Clarkson in any way, shape or form.

"Let's go home." She murmured to him, picking up her handbag and walking over to the doorway as he tried to find his phone and car keys amongst the mountains of paper in front of him, and finally succeeded. He took his battered leather bag from by his desk and followed her out into the corridor, both of them silently pretending not to be looking at the other.

As they reached the deserted car park, they turned to each other, stood in an odd, deafening silence as the wind whipped her dark hair into her face. She smiled awkwardly, looking at the stony ground as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. He watched her silently as she did so, pretending to be looking at the rusty iron bench just behind her.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then." He began, putting a hand on her delicate shoulder and smiling. If it was any other woman, he'd probably have kissed her on the cheek and been on his way, but Nicki was... different, for want of a better word. And, more to the point, it probably wouldn't _just_ be a kiss on the cheek, if it was Nicki – he knew that it would take all of his willpower not to kiss her properly and take her home, and even if he did manage to stop himself, he'd not sleep for a week just thinking about her.

She looked back up at him, her wide blue eyes boring into his for perhaps a second longer than they should have, before looking away and smiling, apparently to herself. She mimicked his movement, but her warm hand touched his arm just below where his sleeves were turned up, feeling as if he'd just been burnt by a hot poker where her hand met his skin.

"Night."

They smiled silently, before walking to their cars, each probably thinking the same thing.

Tom got into his car, throwing his briefcase onto the passenger seat on top of the small rainforest worth of paper already tossed carelessly on it. He switched the car on, to a blast of freezing cold air from the so-called heater he had left on when he got to work at seven am, which he hurriedly turned off, shivering. He _really_ needed a new jacket.

There was a sharp knock on his window, and he must have jumped about a foot before realising that the face at the window was not that of a psychopathic serial killer brandishing a machete. _Bloody horror movies_. He needed to stop watching those, too. No, the face at the window was Nicki, who was now laughing at his skittishness, as he opened the window, attempting to retain a shred of dignity.

"Yes?" he asked, head held proudly as she tried to contain her amusement, mostly unsuccessfully.

"My car won't start."

For one brief moment, he considered offering to help her fix it. He then realised that last time he'd offered to fix a woman's car, he had broken his foot kicking the car in fury after an hour spent hitting various parts of the engine with a large hammer. With the benefit of hindsight, he now realised that it would probably not be the most effective way of impressing a woman, and thus decided to offer Nicki a lift. As anyone else would do.

"Do you want a lift?"

She raised her eyebrows at him, rolling her blue orbs back and half smiling.

"Thank you, knight in shining bloody armour," she grinned, walking in front of his car and opening the passenger door, just as he realised exactly how much paper there was on the seat and went to tell her so. The millisecond he did so, the mountain of paper cascaded out of the door and onto her feet, collecting in several clusters which easily covered her ankles. It was then he realised for the first time that, if looks could kill, he would be a dead man.

Having carefully filed/thrown mountains of sheets back into the car, Nicki sat down and slammed the door, narrowly avoiding trapping her grey scarf as she did so. She looked at him for a brief moment as if she intended to say something, while he pretended to adjust the settings of the car heater, when in actual fact, he felt rather warm enough just being able to smell the scent of her perfume, which was awkward.

They set off out of the school gates into the dimly lit street, turning left and down towards what passed as a beach. As they were travelling in silence, Nicki with her head resting on the window and her breath steaming up the glass, Tom wondering to himself whether or not he had chicken nuggets in the freezer, it suddenly occurred to him that he hadn't got a clue where Nicki's house was.

"Where do you actually live?" he asked, stopping at the T-junction at the bottom of the hill, once again pretending to adjust the heater as if he had a clue what he was doing. God, he'd had that car for three years and he still didn't have any idea how to work anything which didn't control the direction of the car.

"It's up by the pub, the second left after that," she told him, not looking away from the window she seemed so transfixed by, as she looked out into the clear, cold night sky through the small, cloud-like patch of condensation on the glass. It was as if she was detached – he'd seen her like this once before, the night he left Manchester. They'd both been fighting back tears, but each was utterly convinced that they had remained poker-faced as they said goodbye... and that look was in her eyes when he'd finally driven off. It almost scared him to see her like that, just because she was usually so bright, with her bright eyes wide and alert, as they had been earlier.

"Do you want a drink?" he offered, and she then caught his eye momentarily, "My flat's on the Esplanade." She was silent for a moment, and so he then panicked, as he never had before when he'd asked women back to his home. But then again, those women weren't Nicki.

"I mean, you don't have to, it was just a suggestion, I..."

"Yeah, okay." She agreed, cutting him off mid-flustered-sentence, turning to face him properly and giving him that dazzling, 1000-watt smile which, clichéd as it sounded, lit up a room.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Thank you all for the lovely reviews on the last chapter - they're massively appreciated! This is Hannah (HedgieX)'s chapter - enjoy!**_

* * *

It turned out that Tom did have chicken nuggets in the freezer, and also that they were Nicki's "favourite food in the whole wide world, except for barbeque sauce". He considered questioning whether barbeque sauce was, strictly speaking, a food, but decided against it because she seemed too busy devouring the nuggets to engage in conversation.

They sat opposite each other at Tom's little Ikea table in the middle of the kitchen, Tom with his back to the patio doors. Tom was drinking water, as he didn't really want to kill her when he took her home, and Nicki had a bottle of beer ("Would you like red or white wine?" "Wine?" "Yes, wine." "How can you possibly drink _wine_ with chicken nuggets?"). Between them stood a large bowl of chicken nuggets, which had now become an almost-empty bowl.

Tom had laid out forks, but Nicki was unconcernedly delving her fingers into the bowl. She was quite a dainty eater, which surprised him – he thought that anyone who'd once been in the army would scoff anything dumped in front of them – but gosh, she ate fast. _Stop watching her, Tom. She's not an exhibit._ It had been a while since he'd shared a meal with anyone, now Josh was gone, especially a meal such as this, with a person such as this.

"So," she said, wiping her fingers on the kitchen roll he'd folded into messy little triangles go beside the forks, "The play."

"Must we?"

"We've made a commitment." He couldn't tell whether she was being serious or sarcastic. Her fringe had fallen over her eyes, and he was tempted to lean over and push it back because he missed the warmth of her gaze on his face. "We owe it to the children to do the best we possibly can for them, to give them something wonderful to remember."

"Was it the beer or the chicken nuggets that did this to you?"

She made a noise like a frustrated hedgehog. Not that he knew what a frustrated hedgehog sounded like, or even if hedgehogs often became frustrated; it just came to mind.

"It's just supposed to be a bit of fun, Nicki. It's Waterloo Road, for Christ's sake, we're hardly going to give the RSC a run for their money, are we?"

He thought that she looked a bit sad, suddenly. He thought about regaling the gossip from the last school play and promising her that it couldn't get any worse, but he didn't want to tempt fate. There were probably many things that could beat last time in the calamity stakes, like Grantly falling off a ladder whilst painting the backdrop, and spending the next decade hobbling around moaning.

"Got any ice cream?"

He knew for a fact that there was some Ben and Jerry's cookie dough in the freezer, but he wasn't going to tell her that. "Nope."

"What kind of a man doesn't have ice cream ready for a damsel in distress?"

"You're distressed?"

"My car broke down," she reminded him. Her knees brushed his as she pulled her handbag onto her knee, and his heart pounded. _No. She's a damsel in distress, and you're simply a friend helping her out. _"I need some milk," she said.

"Do you have a hedgehog in there?" _Seriously, what was his obsession with hedgehogs tonight?_

She gave him a look that said 'just fetch the milk, Clarkson'. She'd moved her hair from across her face, and her eyes were warm and playful. He stood up and went across to the fridge as she rifled through her bag.

"Will semi-skimmed do, your ladyship?"

She nodded. "We need a bowl and a whisk as well."

"Next you'll be asking for play dough and wires. I really think it'd be best if we left North Korea to the powers that be."

He took everything back to the table, and Nicki added the milk to the bowl, followed by a sachet of something powdery and pink. He was beginning to wish he'd handed over the cookie dough, actually. "And this is?"

"Angel Delight," she said proudly. He could see her muscles contracting as she whisked the mixture, even through her work shirt. "Please don't tell me you've never had Angel Delight. Oh, your poor, deprived son."

"Was your drink spiked or something?"

"This stuff," Nicki said, getting up and finding bowls and spoons with the ease of someone who'd been visiting for years, "Was like gold dust when I was in the forces. Made it whenever we could get our hands on milk, it's amazing how much a bowl of this can boost morale."

She looked suddenly sad again. She had more ups and downs than a yo-yo.

"Nicki–"

"Shush, I'm concentrating."

She split the mixture between the two bowls and put them in the fridge, then moved through to the lounge and stood looking out of the window at the water below. He stood in the kitchen doorway and thought that she looked like a child who'd never seen the sea, her fingers held up to the glass.

She wouldn't have seen the sea much when she was in the army, would she? He wondered about the things she _had_ seen, how much she'd suffered.

"Nice view."

"Mm," he cleared his throat, "Nicer when the water isn't minus fifty degrees."

"Right, let's see the notes you've made about the second scene in act two, then."

_Oops._ "I've not quite–"

"Tom." Her glare was icy when she wanted it to be. He could see why the PRU was thriving; you wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of Nicki Boston. Although he meant that nicely. She was one of those people you really wanted to make proud of you, and the work she'd done with Scout (after an initial disagreement) had been remarkable.

"We had an agreement, I'd do scene one and you'd do scene two. Hardly very taxing, given how many times you've taught Romeo and Juliet before. A _commitment_, Tom."

"And who did almost all of act one, despite having a million better things to do, whilst you sat and moaned? You've changed your tune from being more interested in your Love Hearts."

"I'm sorry about the Love Heart thing, okay? I didn't mean to fling them that hard." She came towards him again. "Did it hurt?"

"They were bloody Love Hearts, not bullets."

"Maybe the world would be a happier place if only Love Hearts were used as weapons." Momentary sadness, again, and then another of her beautiful smiles. "We could send Mr Kim Jong Un one with _Stay Cool_ on it as well."

"That may not pacify him."

She was very close to him now, in the middle of the kitchen he'd shared with nobody for so long. She brought one hand up to the side of his face and ran her thumb down it without breaking eye contact. More temptress than damsel in distress. He could smell her perfume, rich and fruity, and it mingled in with the fresh apple scent of her hair.

Part of him said it was the drink and that she was probably bipolar and that he needed to move away. The other part (a much larger part) said that he wanted to care for her no matter how damaged she was, that he had to stay close, that he wanted this so very much.

"Oh," she said, "I thought it was a bruise, from the Love Heart, but it's just ink."

"Oh," he agreed.

She lowered her hand, but neither of them moved. Nicki's cheeks coloured like someone had dusted them with Angel Delight powder. _She wants this too._

"The Angel Delight will be ready now," she said softly, "You got any sprinkles?"

He didn't, but she said that chocolate buttons would do. They ate silently at the table, Nicki faster than him, so that she sat watching him as he finished off his dessert. _Cor blimey, she wasn't very subtle, was she?_

"Thou frothy, fat-kidneyed moldwarp."

"I beg your pardon?"

She smiled, emphasizing each word as though he was a particularly dim-witted student, "Thou reeky, dread-bolted measle. Oh come on, Shakespearean insults?"

"It's supposed to be Rom and Jule, they're supposed to be in love. I am the west and Juliet is the sun is probably more like it."

"East, darling."

He could feel himself going bright red. He snatched her bowl from her and went to the sink to rinse their crockery under the tap. He could hear her behind him muttering to herself, something about yeast and onions. Was it offensive to ask someone if they'd thought about seeing a psychiatrist?

"You're a co-director, Tom. If your heart's not in it, if you have no passion, how are you going to convince any of the children going to take this seriously?"

"Don't start ranting at me again."

"I'm not ranting. If you don't want to help, then don't, I'll do it myself." She stood up and pushed her chair under the table, flouncing off towards the door.

He realised he really didn't want her to go. "Nicki, I'm sorry, I–"

"Have you got a spare coat?"

_Shit._ "You can't walk in this, I'll give you a lift, but I–"

"Oh, I'm not going home yet."

"Aren't you?"

"No. We're going outside to act out the script, get some ideas. I'm sure there must be some enthusiasm for our project, even if it's buried deep inside of you, and I intend to discover it," she said.

"Do you?" _Over my dead body._

She discovered his coat rack and looking through a couple of battered tweed-ish jackets with her nose turned up. She found an oversized blue jumper and pulled it on over her head; her hair stuck up as though she'd rubbed a balloon on the top of her head. He smirked. She threw one of the tweet jackets at him along with another icy glare.

"I wasn't joking about the minus fifty."

"And I'm not joking about this. I made you Angel Delight, so you owe me." She leant down to use the door as a makeshift mirror so she could tidy her hair. "You must know what it's like when something's important to you, and this is important to me, okay? You don't have a choice, you're going to help me make this show someone nobody will ever forget."

He saw that he was going to lose this battle. Strangely, he didn't mind too much. "Alright, Little Miss Bossy, if you insist."

"Which I do. Come along, Romeo," she dragged him to the door by his sleeve, "If I'm impressed with your attitude, I might just give you another Love Heart."


End file.
